


The Spaces Between My Fingers are Right Where Yours Fit Perfectly

by holliswrites, sidium



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Racism, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holliswrites/pseuds/holliswrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidium/pseuds/sidium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not exactly an accepted thing, as our lovely receptionist has proven. Weren’t homosexuality and racism big deals for you, you know, growing up?” Sam asks, with a pointed look. “I mean, in theory, this could be considered a double offense for you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spaces Between My Fingers are Right Where Yours Fit Perfectly

“So… She was… _nice_ ,” Sam says, sarcasm tainting his voice as he tosses his bag on the bed.

Steve just smirks as he shuts the door and sets his bag down on the floor by the dresser. “Pretty sure I’ve taken down HYDRA agents happier to see me.”

“Well, you know how people are around here, I guess we shouldn’t be too surprised.”

Steve nods, accepting Sam’s point. Their search for Bucky has lead them farther across the US than Steve thought possible. They figured out early on that Bucky couldn’t easily leave the country, due to body scans in airport terminals and Bucky’s new… prosthetic, but that apparently didn’t mean he felt the need to stay in New York. So for the last few months, they’ve been stuck following leads across the States. Right now, they find themselves in a smaller city in Tennessee...complete with all of the attendant stereotypes.

Steve’s not stupid; he knows homophobia still runs rampant, especially in the part of the country they find themselves. He saw how the receptionist of the hotel had eyed them suspiciously when they came in together, and he noticed how her tone turned monotone at best, when they asked for a single bed. He shrugs non-committally.

“If people wanna think gay relationships are that weird, I don’t care. Long as they keep it to themselves.” He glances down at his phone to check the time, and so he misses the amused expression Sam gives him.

At any rate, the less-than-welcoming hospitality they’ve received isn’t enough to put either of them off their appetite. “Hey, I think I saw an IHOP back a few blocks as we were coming into town. Wanna go grab some food?” Steve asks, knowing full well Sam’ll say ‘yes.’ He’s well-aware of Sam’s unnatural love of breakfast food. And thanks to the serum, Steve has a preference for… anything, really--boiled food not withstanding-- so he’s more than happy to indulge Sam in his pursuit of greasy bacon and overly-fluffy pancakes.

Sam nods easily, laid-back and predictable in his tastes as always,  and Steve catches him by the wrist before Sam can walk past him to the door. He tugs Sam towards him and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of how easily Sam goes along with Steve’s random shows of affection. It’s true, public displays of affection still make Steve uncomfortable… but in private, it’s another matter entirely. He can’t help it. He loves having his hands on Sam as much as he can, and he is secretly thrilled at how much Sam happily lets him get away with.

He puts a hand on the side of Sam’s neck and pulls him forward, just for a gentle press of lips. Sam responses instantly, kissing back with a soft, contented hum. They’ve been together for the majority of their trip now, and Steve thinks he might like this, just innocent soft kisses with no real intent being traded back and forth, even more than sex. They stay like that for a few more minutes, neither of them pressing deeper, just enjoying the comfortable, easy contact. Steve lets his hands slide down to grip at Sam’s hips, as Sam traces Steve’s jaw-line with his thumbs.

It all comes to a halt, however, when Steve’s growling stomach breaks the moment. Sam pulls back with a laugh and Steve can feel himself flush. “Stupid serum,” he mutters, and Sam laughs a little harder.

“C’mon, man.” Sam says, opening the door, “Let’s go get you some grease to shovel into that bottomless pit you call a stomach.”

 

\-------

 

Dinner goes the same way it always does, with easy conversation, tons of food, and trying to figure out what the hell Bucky’s thinking. They have great reason to think they’re getting closer to him, but enough intelligence and rationality between them not to get too excited about a few leads.

It’s not until they’re sitting with their backs leaned against the headboard of the bed later on, watching old reruns of ‘I Love Lucy’ that Sam brings up the receptionist again.

“You _do_ realize it wasn’t just the gay thing she had a problem with, right?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow at Steve.

Steve stares at him blankly for a second while his brain plays catch-up, “Oh, you mean the receptionist, earlier?” Steve asks, making a scrunchy face of displeasure at having to think about her again.

“Yeah.”

“I figured that was pretty much it. Why?” Steve replies, mildly confused. He’s not sure where Sam’s going with this.

“You are aware there is _another_ aspect to this relationship people might just have a problem with, correct?” Sam keeps his voice carefully even.

Suddenly, it hits Steve like a ton of bricks what Sam means and he almost laughs at how dense he’s being. “Oh, you mean the whole-” Steve fumbles for the right words, but, like always, Sam’s right there to catch him.

“‘Dating outside one’s race’ thing, yeah.” After her says this, he sneaks an expectant look  at Steve, as though waiting for him to confess something.

Steve just shrugs again, halfway between confused and amused. “I dunno. What do you want me to say?”

Sam gives a lazy shrug, “Doesn’t it ever bother you?”

“Does _‘it’_ bother _you_?” Steve responds, carefully, after a second, not sure really sure how else to answer. To be completely honest, it’s never bothered him. He’s never found a legitimate reason for it to bother him so, he’s always just kind of brushed the fact aside and moved on. But of course, Sam isn’t necessarily aware of that. And he knows enough to be aware of the fact that it’s something that Sam might’ve not be able to brush off as easily in his life as Steve could in his. But then--

“I’m not _‘Captain America,'_ ”Sam points out, smirking.

“Cheap shot, man.” Steve accuses, grinning, reaching behind him to pull the pillow out from behind his back and whack Sam with it. He’s used to people typecasting him because of his alter-ego, but when Sam does it, Steve’s always quick to set the record straight. Sam snatches the pillow out of his hands and hits Steve back and pretty soon, their mini-pillow fight turns into a major make-out session and the conversation is quickly forgotten as the expeditious removal of clothing takes priority.

It’s not until after, after they’ve cleaned up, as they are letting their breathing return to normal and Steve is lying almost sideways in the bed with his head pillowed on Sam’s abs, that Sam mentions it again.

“It really doesn’t bother you, does it?” Sam asks, running his fingers through Steve’s closely-shorn hair.

This time, Steve doesn’t even bother trying to suppress the fond roll of his eyes when he  catches on to Sam’s meaning. “So, the fact _‘Captain America’_ doesn’t mind taking it up the ass doesn’t surprise you, but the fact _‘Captain America’_ doesn’t find your skin color repulsive does?” Steve asks, turning his head just enough to make eye contact with Sam, who lightly swats him on the back of his head.

“Well, hearing words like that come out of _‘Captain America’s’_ mouth is a _definite_ surprise. But you know, I have sort of wondered how it is you’re so cool with the gay thing, too,” Sam admits, and Steve’s face contorts in confusion.

“Why would ‘the _gay_ thing’ bother me?” Steve hasn’t felt this lost in a conversation with Sam in… ever. He manages not to sound as offended as he feels at the implication he should be a homophobe for some reason, and manages to just sound annoyed instead.

“I didn’t mean it like…” Sam huffs a sigh. “It’s not exactly an accepted thing, as our lovely receptionist has proven. Weren’t homosexuality and racism big deals for you, you know, growing up?” he asks, with a pointed look. “I mean, in theory, this could be considered a double offense for you.”

“Kinda. I don’t know.” Steve answers defensively. “I mean, what about you? _You’re_ in this relationship, too, you know.”

“Yeah, true,” Sam concedes, tilting his head a little.

“So, you answer your own question, and then I’ll _think_ about giving you my answer.” Steve says with a devious smirk.

“Why do I have to go first?” Sam asks, mock-annoyed, gently tugging on Steve’s hair.

“You’re the one bringing it up.” Steve counters, and Sam grins down at him. 

“Alright, fair enough,” Sam answers. There’s a long pause, and Steve can practically see him collecting and organizing his thoughts before he sighs,

“The part of town I grew up in was mostly black, it was… rare to see a white person around, and my family didn’t know any, so they just weren’t a part of my world. I was little, like five or six, and I never questioned it.” He sighs and he stares off into the distance as he gets his thoughts in order. “I guess that’s just how it always was, you know? In high school, there were white kids, not many, but,” He shrugs and gives a little shake of his head, “They just kind of stuck to their thing, and we stuck to ours.”

“It wasn’t anything like, an outright war between us or anything,” he clarifies and Steve nods, listening closely, “Just this faint, almost subconscious avoidance, and ire, like we maybe felt like they shouldn’t there, but if someone had actually asked us, I doubt any of us could’ve really said why. Looking back, they were just typical teenagers, you know? They started a few fights, got drug into a few, all probably for the wrong reasons,” he says, with a pointed look, and Steve understands. He understands how tension, even tension people really don’t actively acknowledge or verbalize, can build and snap. Especially with volatile teenagers. “But they never really did anything for us to hate them.”

“It’s funny how we just kind of... blindly accepted it.” He grins, maybe a little ruefully, “No one ever stopped to actually wonder why we didn’t want them around, or didn’t welcome any of them, or be friendlier to them.”

“So, what changed?” Steve asks, softly, taking Sam’s hand and intertwining their fingers. He understands they’re in _‘serious discussion’_ mode and he really doesn’t want to mess anything up. He may have missed out on the Civil Rights struggles of mid-20th century America, but he still shoulders the important responsibility of navigating these conversations with consideration and intelligence.

“The Air Force,” Sam says with a little curve to his lips, perhaps in self-deprecation. “I learned real fast you _cannot_ take one look at a person and know if they’re worth relying on. Skin color, hair color, accent. Not one piece of that matters when all of you have your asses on the line. When you’re under fire and so are your troops, and the adrenaline is racing and it’s too chaotic to know who’s who, or even to fucking care. You just want to keep your head, and get your buddies out, and hope they have the crazy-brave balls to do the same.”  

Steve pauses to allow the truth of the words to sink in. He supposes, wryly, a lesson in trusting people with your life _would_ probably sit with you longer than high school peer pressure. 

“Riley was the best wingman I ever had. He was an upstanding guy from day one. Never let anyone push him around, always did the honorable thing and everyone trusted him without ever being told to.” Sam looks torn between fondness and pain at the memory, but continues on with confidence. “And if he’d been any _whiter_ , he’d have been _albino_ ,” he adds with a smile and Steve gives a small laugh of amusement, “That’s just how it was. You learned really fast to figure out who you could trust, who you couldn’t, and you learn really fast that appearance is a dumbass way to trying to decide that.” His lips quirk into a grin as he says it, and Steve just grins back. There’s a lot of truth in Sam’s words and Steve doesn’t want to sully it with his own input, even if it would be supportive.   
  
They sit for a while in companionable silence, Steve stroking his thumb across the back of Sam’s hand. He’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t thinking about the stark contrast of their skin, the obvious difference plain to see even by dim light of the bedside table in the room, but he’d also be a liar if he said he wasn’t thinking about it because it was strikingly beautiful.

A little while passes before Steve judges it safe to speak again. “What about the gay thing?” he asks, quietly.

Sam scoffs. “Non-issue, thank god. When I was four years old, I was mad at the girl next door, and I marched into our living room and told my parents I was going to marry a boy. They just smiled and said ‘Whatever makes you happy.’” Steve grins in appreciation, but Sam isn’t done yet. “Fourteen years later, I sat my parents down in our living room and told them I was in love with a boy, and this time, it had _nothing_ to do with being mad at any girl. My parents, they just smiled and said ‘Whatever makes you happy.’” He remembers this with fondness, and Steve feels a bright surge of affection for any parent that could be that accepting. Sam’s lucky and Steve would be stupid to think Sam didn’t know it.

“Your parents sound really great,” Steve says, grinning up at Sam, and he almost glows at Steve’s praise.

“Alright,” Sam says, taking their joined hands and whacking them lightly against Steve’s chest. “Your turn. Something tells me yours is gonna be a little more… complicated than mine.”

“Why do you say that?” Steve asks, pretending to be offended. He knows why Sam would think that, he’s not dumb. He just wants to mess with him.

“You were born in what, 1920?” Sam asks, with a pointed look.

“1918,” Steve answers reflexively. “So?”

“So… gay people weren’t exactly _celebrated_ back then, and neither were black people.” Sam raises a hand, careful to not let go of Steve’s hand with his other, before Steve can start protesting. “I’m not saying you’re a bigot or anything, but even what was considered polite back then is… not, now. I’m just surprised at how fast and how… _well_ you adjusted,” he finishes, hoping he has picked his words carefully enough.

There’s a long stretch of silence as Steve tries to get his thoughts in order.

“When I was little,” Steve starts out, slowly, sighing as he remembers, “My mom taught me that everyone was equal. That was a really big thing for her. She always told me there’s no one out there better than me, or worse than me, or even that _different_ from me, or me from them, and there’s no reason to make anyone feel like anything less. For some reason, that just… stuck with me, even as a kid.” He clarifies. “We were poor as dirt, and Irish, and Catholic, and we lived in Brooklyn. The Irish kept to themselves, like the Russians did, and the Jewish did, and so on, but my ma… she saw the common theme. We were all in the same boat. And she was smart enough to see how even then, some folks tried to make themselves seem  _better_. Like in being superior to someone else, anyone else, they could forget that they were just as poor as everyone else. And my ma? She wasn’t having any of that. She worked in a hospital, for crying out loud. Everyone suffers and dies the same way.”

Sam nods, and Steve realizes, he could leave it there, and Sam would accept it. Just an unconventional lesson from a remarkably humane Irish-Catholic mom. Steve keeps going, anyway. There’s more to it, and he decides, since Sam wants to know, he’ll tell him.

“After my ma passed, it was me and Bucky. Bucky was… everything for me for a long time. Not… romantically,” he clarifies, because given the current circumstances, he could see why Sam would think otherwise, “But he was the most important person in my life, and he kind of morphed that… ideal that my ma put in me into something practical. There was an older woman that lived in our building, and every winter, her heater would give her trouble, and Buck would always volunteer to go fix it for her, no matter how long it took. Someone asked him once why he bothered helping her, and it took me a while to realize they held her skin color against her.” Steve grins dolefully at his own naivety.   
  
“It took a while before I found out they were hostile that she’d managed to get a place in the building, because she looked white. But it was kind of a well-known secret she actually wasn’t,  she was just ‘passing.’ I think it took me so long to catch on because Buck would just shrug and say ‘Folks is folks.’ I was so used to his attitude, I didn’t even realized it rubbed off on me. It wasn’t something that ever really mattered.” Steve stops and sighs again, his chest a tight, hot mess of emotions roiling as he remembers Bucky so vividly. Sam lets go of Steve’s hand to run his fingers through his hair and Steve smiles, pressing his face into Sam’s stomach.

“You got more?” Sam asks, gently, and Steve acknowledges what he’s doing. He’s giving him the chance to back out. The chance to let memories be memories, because Sam understands how it affects Steve to remember.  

Steve nods, anyway, realizing he wants to go on, to share that piece of himself with Sam. “When I finally got into the military, and we found out Peggy was one of our COs, there were a bunch of guys who were really pissed off about it. Kept saying a woman couldn’t keep her cool when it mattered. That she wasn’t tough enough for war. Peggy was one of the strongest, most fearless people I ever met, and her being a woman in combat never mattered.

“Nat must appreciate that attitude.” Sam comments, dryly. Steve just smiles again and closes his eyes.

“One of the men in the Howling Commandos was gay. One was black. Everyone kept expecting me to act like it was a big deal just because _they_ thought it was. Like those things were weaknesses somehow, and eventually, I’d notice that and have them removed from my team, or else give the rest of the crew the go-ahead to be assholes about it. You know what I noticed about them?” Steve asked, looking up at Sam. Sam shook his head.

“Nate could always make people laugh, even when we all felt like we were going insane, and Gabe could quote books that he read all the way back when he was a kid. I never really understood why I was supposed to see anything else, or see that there was something more remarkable about them than _those_ traits. They weren’t smarter or dumber, or braver or more cowardly than anyone else, just because their skin was darker or they liked men.”

“Weren’t- _aren’t_ you Catholic, though?” Sam asks, with a puzzled look. “I thought Catholics preached hell for homosexuals and shit. I can understand accepting that about other people, but, I mean, how do you sort that out with yourself?”

“I asked a priest about it once.” Steve speaks slowly, tongue darting out to lick his dry lips, “It took me a long time to get up the courage to ask, because then I would have to actually say it out loud. I just couldn’t understand why God would design me to want to be with men _and_ women and then condemn me for being the way He meant for me to be.” Steve says, serious and sober. “Fortunately, Father Kelley was… he was kind. He didn’t judge me for it, or treat me badly. He explained that I was right. That it wouldn’t make any sense. He told me that if I used someone for my own sexual pleasure, it would be considered the sin of lust, but it wasn’t exclusive to gender.”

Steve grins and blushes as he goes on, “He said as long as I cared about the person I was with, that I didn’t touch another person with selfish intent, that God would recognize that and I wouldn’t be guilty of a sin. I would be acting as the person God made me to be.” He says simply, with a small shrug. “That made sense to me, and I haven’t had any reason to see it any other way.”  
  
“So Captain America’s just God-fearing, colorblind and genderblind, huh?” Sam asks, with a devious smile, and Steve can’t help but frown, just a little.

“Well, I don’t know,” he says, thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say ‘colorblind.’”

“Hm, why not?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s like saying I’m just choosing to ignore that part of you. I’m not. It’s part of you, just like me being Irish-Catholic. It’s part of my genes, and my culture. And... I know what society can act like. I’m not-- just… don’t see why it’s a bad thing, or why it’s supposed to be such a huge difference, or why people think it should stop me from loving you.” It’s the first time Steve’s said it, that he’s in love with Sam and he flushes, face burning hot against the cool skin of Sam’s stomach. He’s mentally preparing himself for the fallout of that statement, half-wondering if it’s too late to take it back.

Sam just smiles and runs his fingertips along Steve’s cheekbone. “You’re sweet.”

“When I got... here,” Steve goes on, like the last little exchange hadn’t happened (because if he can’t take it back, maybe ignoring it will make it go away. One thing that he has picked up on easily: he knows it’s awful soon to say something like that.), “People had to correct me on a few things I said, because, like you said, things that were considered respectful back then aren’t now, but… it wasn’t a problem. Same attitude, just different words… I _may_ have inadvertently embarrassed myself a few times,” he admits with a grin, and Sam laughs, bright and happy, and Steve’s whole world lights up at the sound, “but I caught on.”

“Oh man, I’d love to know what you said, and to whom. Was it Fury? Please, tell me it was Fury.” Sam says excitedly, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Nope. Not telling,” Steve says defiantly, grinning, “You’ll just have to wonder forever.”  
  
“Gah, you tease.” Sam says, pushing at Steve slightly, as though to push him away. Steve barely moves; just laughs, playfully pretends to defend himself and take the chance to pull himself rightways in the bed.  

To cut off Sam’s train of thought, he shifts his weight, curls up against Sam’s side, and pulls the blankets up around them both as Sam wraps an arm around him, pulling him close with a deep, contented sigh.

They’re both exhausted, in more ways than one, and a gentle peace settles over the room. It’ll be interrupted, in a few hours, if this night proves to be like the others. Steve, haunted by Bucky’s eyes, his face, his soul, will, most likely, wake up tormented by dreams and nightmares of friend turned enemy. Sam, haunted by his own past, his own losses, might be the one, however, to break the silence of sleep with his own laments and horrors.

But here, in their peaceful bubble, all by themselves; it’s easy to pretend neither will happen, and they’ll both find quiet for a whole night. They may be right. It’s happened on occasion.

“You realize there are always going to be people who’re going to have a problem with us being together, right?” Sam asks, quietly, after a long stretch of silence, knowing Steve is awake and can hear him, though his voice is barely over a whisper.

“I don’ care.” Steve slurs, half-asleep, not opening his eyes and running his hand down Sam’s side to curl his fingers around his hip. “They can have their stupid problems. I’ve got _you_.”

Comfortable silence settles over both of them and it’s not until Steve’s almost asleep he hears Sam say quietly, “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, in full disclosure, this story was written by two, heteroflexible, white women. If we made any serious mistakes in our work, or even any minor mistakes, we're very open to criticism.


End file.
